Array 50 Cent - Baby Brother

“Now I said what I said, and I meant it. It’s final. Let the cops handle it. That’s what they get paid to do. Malik’s gonna have his boys all over it. They’ll make sure justice gets served.”

Raheem spoke quietly. His eyes were red and full of tears. “Those slime-bags banged him, Antwan! They stuck their dicks up his ass, then cut his fuckin’ throat. Now you might be able to close your eyes and not see that shit. You might be able to search your soul and not feel it too. But I can’t .”

Priest tightened his muscles, absorbing his brother’s wrath deep in his soul. He knew all about prison rapes. He had groveled around like a dog behind those bars before God took mercy and spoke to him. He’d participated in acts so grimy that no amount of baptism could wash the stink of his deeds from his spirit. There’s no such thing as a MONSTER. There’s no such thing as a MONSTER. There’s no such thing as a MONSTER. But still. He’d been blind then. Just a snake crawling around on its belly in the darkness. He was trying to live a redeemed life now, and the retaliation his brothers were suggesting was sinful.

“I said, leave it be. All of us need to take a page outta Baby Brother’s book. The way he lived his life should be an example to us. Let’s not use his death as an excuse to do even more wrong in our lives. As hard as it might be, and bad as it might hurt, we gonna do this the right way. Leave Borne and his crew alone. Whatever them fools got coming, they’ll get it. Now leave it alone.”

Five nights later Priest was feeling low. Baby Brother had been buried, and the stress of going through the emotional, jam-packed funeral and keeping his younger brothers in check at the same time had taken a physical toll on him, and his body was in turmoil.

“I’m going out to get some juice,” he told Farad, rubbing his throat. Finesse was upstairs in bed with a girl, Kadir was on the road back to Atlantic City, and Malik and Raheem had just gone back to the house they shared in Crown Heights.

Sitting at the table, Farad looked up as his brother dragged out the door. Antwan looked bad. Worn. The funeral had hit them all hard, especially since Baby Brother’s coffin had been closed, a telltale sign of his brutal and disfiguring death. But Priest had taken it hardest. He was the oldest and used to be the baddest and the meanest. He was the protector of his clan. Mother and father to his younger brothers, and he took it as if their failure to protect Baby Brother rested squarely on his shoulders.

Priest ambled down the streets of Brooklyn with his mother on his mind. She had been such a beautiful woman. Tall, well-shaped, with the most amazing dark-chocolate skin and a dazzling smile. Their father had been muscular and very light-skinned, with amber eyes, which was the only physical attribute he had passed on to any of his sons.

It was late, but his throat was sore and he needed relief, as well as a little solitude. He walked through the doors of the Key Foods supermarket and headed straight for the refrigerated section along the back row of the store. He selected a quart of Tropicana in a smooth glass jar, then stopped in the medicine aisle and picked up a box of Sucrets.

There was only one cashier open, but the line was pretty short. Priest stood behind a group of young thugs who were cutting up. Their whole demeanor reflected drug involvement, hood life, and street culture. They were loud and abrasive. Profanity-laced tirades spilled from their mouths and echoed throughout the store.

Priest stared at them. At their clothing, their jewelry, and the cases of beer and bottles of alcohol they carried in each hand. They were a reflection of his younger self. A milder reflection, true, but if they committed enough crimes and crawled in the gutters long enough, they might be able to get half as grimy as he’d been.

“Man, I’m ’bout to get me some pussy!” one of the young heads said, balancing his case of brew against the counter and rubbing his dick with his free hand. He was tall and light, solidly built with a shiny bald head. “I ain’t had a bitch since I got outta Rikers!”

His boy looked at him and laughed. “Niggah, you been on the streets for two days and you ain’t got a piece of ass yet?”

One of the others, a short yellow kid with a long ponytail laughed even louder. “He said pussy, niggah! He got him a piece of ass in the joint, man!”

The bald-headed cat shrugged. “Yeah. I had to grin a niggah last week, yo. I’on’t be playing with dudes, ya know?”

“Oh, man! Y’all shoulda seen that cat!” the short kid hollered. “That motherfuckah fought like hell! Stabbed my man Rant in the neck with a fuckin’ fork! Took him out! That was Borne’s lil cousin, yo! We ended up dragging that fool in the meat locker. I slammed him over the head with a frying pan, then Qui put that niggah in a throat-lock and dicked him!”

Shorty with the lemon face laughed hysterically.

“Y’all shoulda seen how that niggah bucked Qui off! My niggah had to deep smiley him to get him to lay down. Blood was running all outta that black fool. From his throat and his ass!”

Priest staggered, losing his grip on the orange juice. The bottle hit the floor and exploded, sending yellow liquid mixed with glass shards all across the dirty linoleum.

“What the fuck!” a brown-skinned youth in a red-and-yellow shirt turned around and hollered as the liquid splashed the back of his pant legs and his Ice Cream sneakers by Pharrell.

“Yo, you stupid mothafuckah! What the hell is wrong with you, man?” He stepped up on Priest, embarrassed and swollen with anger. “Preacher or no preacher, I oughta fuck yo ass up!”

Baby Brother, Priest raged inside, the graphic description of his brother’s murder ringing in his ears. They talked about it like his baby brother wasn’t shit. Like he didn’t have no purpose in this world, like didn’t nobody love him. No longer were his brother’s killers just some random inmates in a depraved criminal justice system. They had faces. Bodies. Their confession was in the air burning his ears. The brutal pictures Priest had tried so hard not to see were now permanently etched in his mind. His blood was full of ice as the young cat beefed in his face. There’s no such thing as a MONSTER. There’s no such thing as a MONSTER. There’s no such thing…

Priest just stood there as the youngster based and his boys yeasted him up, encouraging him to action. He took the threats in silence. He was battling for his soul and he couldn’t even speak. There was a time when he would have bitten every last one of them. Bitten all of them at the same time. Buried their punk asses where they stood. Sent their mamas scurrying downtown to make funeral arrangements. But all he could do now was stare into their faces as he slammed his grief down and fought the monster-sized fury that was trying to take its place.

He got a good look at them. At all of them. But especially at the tall dude they’d called “Qui.” This young niggah had bought and paid for whatever retribution ended up coming to him. He’d earned his wrath, cash and carry. Priest dropped his Sucrets to the ground and began walking away, his eyes recording their features like a video camera. That dude Acqui was in trouble.

Storming back down the wet streets with deliberate purpose, Priest went into criminal-minded mode as Antwan “Monster” Davis, that brutal killer he had convinced himself was dead, emerged and took over the show, bigger and badder than ever. There was work to be done. Retribution to be exacted. Bodies to be buried. By the time he burst through his front door he was fully transformed, with nothing but crushing bone and spilling blood on his mind.